


Marks, and their Meanings

by MaySparrow



Series: if you love me, love all of me [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Beelzebub uses them/them, Descriptions of Body Injury, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Injuries from the Fall, Multi, Wing Grooming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-20 20:57:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21288071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaySparrow/pseuds/MaySparrow
Summary: Demon scars don't manifest on Earthly Corporations. Gabriel has never been Downstairs, so he's never seen Beelzebub's true form. He reacts... poorly.Written for the Good Omens Kink Meme.
Relationships: Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Minor or Background Relationship(s), mentioned Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens)
Series: if you love me, love all of me [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1534586
Comments: 6
Kudos: 122
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	Marks, and their Meanings

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Good Omens kink meme entirely by accident.  
Find the prompt [here](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=1129064&style=site#cmt1129064)  
I wasn't at all devoted to writing full fic for Ineffable Bureaucracy, and then one day I was driving my car and was run over by inspiration. I still can't believe my first full GO fanfic ISN'T Ineffable Husbands but here we are. Please enjoy, let me know if I've missed anything to tag.
> 
> Note, there are some graphic descriptions of the sort of skin infections and symptoms of illness that are in TV canon. They're pretty brief, but a warning in any case.

Gabriel has never actually been to the Basement.

There's plenty of reasons as to why; he's an Archangel, it's safer for meetings to occur on the upper levels or on Earth, it's disgusting, et cetera. Mostly, though, he tends to hit his head on the ceiling. It's embarrassing. Look, it's _dark_ down there! He can't see the beams! He doesn't owe you an explanation anyway, go away.

This has never been an issue or cause for debate when arranging his meetings with the Prince of Hell, who is.... well, not _happy,_ but content to meet in a clean office room any day of the week. They have met in offices, in art museums, and most often in high class hotels which are prided for their comfort and discretion. These, Gabriel thinks, are preferable to the dank, cold, and wet of the Basement that Beelzebub speaks of often.

So Gabriel has not been in the Basement, and so he has not seen the true forms of any demons. He knows their corporations, of course. They are recorded in the Archives for smiting purposes. He assumes their true forms look no different from the corporations they choose, as he and his fellow angels do.

He's wrong.

–

Gabriel has been waiting at the foot of the escalators for twenty minutes. His foot is beginning to tap against the reflective tiles. Beelzebub is not one to—alright, well, yes, there are times when Beelzebub keeps him _waiting_, but there's a kind of context for that. Beelzebub is never late to a meeting, as it is unbecoming of something in a higher (lower?) position of authority.

He eyes the reflection of the escalator in distaste. Checks his watch once more.

Something must have come up last minute that demanded their attention. Had there been any warning, they would have alerted him to reschedule.

Gabriel does not fidget, or bite his lip, or cross his arms. These are all human things. He does, however, close his eyes for a long moment, grit his teeth, and release his breath, because he's impatient and irritated.

If the Prince is unable to leave the castle, then Gabriel will just have to go to them. It will save them a trip, in any case.

Clenching his jaw, Gabriel makes his descent.

–

It is even worse than he imagined, he thinks as he balls his fists and tries, without success, to touch anyone in the crowded halls. There is a constant _drip, drip_ from overhead that follows him down two different floors; there is a constant low rumble from the walls. There is dirt, grime; there are indistinguishable stains on all the surfaces. There are buzzing flies and slithering things and he can hear the flap of leathery wings from somewhere.

Mostly, though, there is the _smell. _

It's like rot, he supposes, though he doesn't have a lot of experience with the stuff. Mold, maybe. Decay. It brings images to his mind unprompted: black boils and swollen pus filled cysts, infections and rashes and all things Pestilence. Gabriel grimaces.

The demons try to avoid him as best they can, because it's _him_, an archangel, tall and clean and threatening in their domain. Despite the fact they outnumber him, they know better than to try their luck against the Highest Ring. 

This does, however, make it difficult to get directions. Not that Gabriel _wants_ to ask for help, because that's stupid and embarrassing. He's not _lost._ He's an angel, he's got an innate sense of direction.

Totally.

–

It's another fifteen minutes before Gabriel admits to himself that he's lost.

–

He's pretty sure he's about four floors down before he manages to actually corner a lesser demon, who very firmly does _not_ squeak as she tucks herself against the wall. He looks her over skeptically; dressed in baggy, filthy clothes, the demon's face is littered in tiny pockmarks and burns, like a chain smoker has decided to use her face to put out their cigarettes.

He decidedly does not grimace, instead prompting, “I'm looking for the Prince of Flies. They were meant to be Upstairs about--” he checks his watch, “an hour and a half ago.”

Jesus Christ, this demon is ugly. He hasn't paid that much attention to those he's passed, but he thinks this one ought to win a medal for detestable. Heck, maybe they _do_ give medals for that sort of shit down here.

The demon visibly swallows, the tiny butcher bird on her shoulder bouncing from foot to foot. “Lord Beelzebub is located one floor above, dealing with a sudden brawl between lower factions in their power.”

“By all means,” Gabriel says, stepping aside with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. (You know the one. The one that shows his teeth, and makes you feel like he's about to set you ablaze and be pleased about it.) “Lead the way.”

–

He hears the Prince before he sees them, as is usually the case with the small demon. They are shouting above the low din that seems to be everpresent. 

“_Enough!”_ Their voice booms with fury and power. Gabriel nearly smiles, and then remembers himself and pointedly does not, instead shouldering his way through the thick crowd. “You _imbezzziles!_ You think we can afford two_ Dukezzzz_ infighting for Ligur'zzzz faction _again_? It hazzz already been dizzcuzzed!”

He can finally see their back, he thinks. They are facing away from him, towards what are two Dukes with reptilian features (gross) who are staring at each other with venom. The demon with a toad on his head has blood on his mouth, which he wipes away with a snarl. “Maybe you ought to make it more _clear,_ Lord, to the other Dukes. Ligur's faction is and always has been _my_ faction--”

“I am _aware_, Hastur,” the Prince is snarling. “Do not forget who granted you that claim, nor who can take it juzzzt as eazzily.”

Hastur looks at his superior, and then behind them, spotting the bright spot standing against the background of grey and brown and black. He's noticeably surprised by Gabriel's presence, and his silence has the Prince following his gaze, turning--

Oh,_ fuck. _

Gabriel openly grimaces at the sight of Beelzebub's face, littered with rashes and sores along their cheek and chin. Flies swarm around their face, their eyes lit up with anger that turns into something Gabriel cannot discern as they spot him.

“_What_,” they hiss, “are you _doing_ here.”

Gabriel opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again.

“You're late.”

Beelzebub's mouth becomes a drawn, thin line as they pull a small pocket watch from their coat. “Zzzo I am. Apologiezzz. I have been,” and here, they shoot a dark look over their shoulder at the Duke, “preoccupied. Let uzzz go.”

Gabriel stands aside, and lets Beelzebub lead him out of the Basement, restraining his commentary on their appearance for when they are in a more private location. He figures the explanation is a simple one; that Beelzebub's corporation was attacked or perhaps hexed by one of the demons in the scuffle Below, and they will heal it momentarily.

It does not disappear as they ascend the floors, he finds. And he sees the rash on the back of the Prince's hand, creeping into their sleeve. Flies creep in and out of their hair and they don't seem to notice.

–

Gabriel stands behind them on the escalator, and so he sees as they rise how their skin suddenly smooths over, the flies creeping back under their collar and coalescing into a cap. He blinks, tilts his head, tastes the air and notes the lack of a miracle.

Huh.

“Where are we dizzcuzzing our matterzz today, Angel?” Their tone is still rather closed off and formal, probably from still-cooling anger from Downstairs. “I am in need of a good meal I can rip my teeth into.”

“Gross.”

“Prinzzze. Of. _Gluttony._”

It's a familiar back and forth they share as they walk to Gabriel's second choice of rendezvous. It's a hotel with excellent room service, which is why the demon likes it so, and he's willing to let them have this for their mood.

“What happened to your face Downstairs?” He prompts as they tuck into the intimidatingly large cheeseburger with equally terrifying swiftness. 

“I'm certain I don't know what you mean,” they reply, dabbing their mouth delicately with their napkin. Their hissing has slid back down to nothing as they had calmed. 

Gabriel considers snagging one of their fries, and then resists the obvious temptation they have just used to distract him. Bleh, him _eating_? Not subtle. “The rash, I mean. That happen recently?”

Beelzebub says nothing, and Gabriel finds them looking at him with that indiscernible expression again. After a long few moments, they turn back to their meal. “It is no business of yours.”

“I'm just curious! I've never seen you break out or anything, and that looked severe. I could heal it, if--”

“_No!_” comes the sharp reply. Gabriel drops his hand from where it has risen to touch Beelzebub's shoulder, blinking. They bare their teeth in a snarl, and he pulls back. “Do not attempt to heal me, Archangel. It will do nothing.”

“Um.”

They turn away, staring at the plate in front of them. There is still a third of the burger remaining. They shove the plate away.

Something's wrong.

“I don't understand what's happening here.”

“Of course you don't,” Beelzebub says fiercely, shoving Gabriel back against the mattress. “You're an _idiot,_ and thick as a rock besides.”

“Okay, don't sling insults to a guy that's just trying to help--”

“You _can't_ help!”

“Buzz, what the hell is going on?!”

They scowl. “The _scars,_ you idiot. They aren't _new._”

Gabriel blinks from where he is prone on the bed, up at them. “But they looked fresh.”

“They are not. They are relics of the Fall.”

He goes silent. His mind is turning over this new information. Beelzebub continues, sitting beside him instead of hovering over him. “All demons have zzome form of wound from the Fall. They zztay fresh, or they scar horribly. It izz not a big deal.”

It _is _a big deal, Gabriel thinks, staring at the ceiling. After all, their speech has begun to go buzzy again.

“Why doesn't it show up when you're Upstairs?”

“We azzz demons have learned to use illusions to keep humans unaware.”

“What about me?”

Beelzebub is quiet again. Gabriel tilts his head on the bed, to see them facing away from him. 

“It has never come up. I assumed you knew and it did not matter.”

There's a lie in there somewhere, but Gabriel can't see it clearly. He grimaces.

“Do they hurt?”

This time, the silence is longer.

“Buzz,” he says, firm. “Be honest. How bad does it hurt?”

Beelzebub meets his gaze. Their eyes are steely. “You get used to it.”

–

Gabriel finds, after that, that he can't stop thinking about it.

When they're together, he finds himself wondering how far the boils and rashes go, under their skin. He doesn't feel anything when his hands are on their abdomen and hips, and there's nothing on their thighs. He wonders how many times he's irritated an open wound with his careless blunt nails. 

He wonders what else hurts. They've never manifested their wings on Earth, despite Beelzebub's offer to preen Gabriel's. He had declined, because it was a sign of pride and vanity, and that was that. Now he wonders what damage he would find on the thin skin under their pinion feathers. 

He pays closer attention to how they hold themself, looking for clues in how they react when he touches them. He sees how they prefer to sit where he prefers to stand. How they favor their left side. 

He's gentler with them, careful to see if his hands do harm. 

So Gabriel is surprised when Beelzebub tries to slide away from his touch now, eager to cut their meetings short. 

Maybe they're just actively showing him that it hurts, now that he knows? Maybe they're being more honest now. But it doesn't explain the anger in their face or how rough they are when they do pin him to the bed and keep him there, keep him from touching.

–

In hindsight, the idea is a terrible one, and he should expect the blowout that results. But he's going in with the best intentions, really.

(He's never heard the phrase, about the road to hell.)

When Beelzebub sees him this time, Gabriel sits them down in an ergonomic chair to ease their back pain. There is no comment, no thanks, as they settle into it, sitting straight and facing him with an impassive expression. “You claimed you had something to speak about.”

Gabriel sits beside them, and pulls a small side table up. There is a small plastic case on it, that he opens to reveal the contents of.

Beelzebub recoils.

“No,” they say sharply, as Gabriel pulls out the antibiotic ointment and cotton swabs. “No, you will not attempt what you are—_Gabriel, _put them _away._”

“For God's sake, Buzz,” he says without heat, “if you won't let me heal them then you can at least treat the pain.”

“Sssstop it. You will not touch me.”

“Stop being difficult.”

“Stop trying to _fix_ me!”

Gabriel pulls back, dropping the swab and the tube, surprised by the rage in their voice. “Fix you? No, Buzz, I'm just trying to help.”

They glare, and stand, and storm out of the room.

–

Beelzebub does not see him for a while after that. They ignore his correspondences, send back the tickets he sends them to attend the Tate. 

It stings, a bit. He's trying to figure out what he's done wrong, and he keeps dancing around the statement they made, when he'd tried to help with human means.

_“Stop trying to fix me!” _

Gabriel doesn't get it. He's just trying to ease the pain, make the wounds more bearable if they won't go away. He's not sure where all Beelzebub's anger is coming from, and it's frustrating him.

He's got to get to the bottom of this. He's got to see how bad the scars are, to know what he's doing wrong. Maybe, in Hell, showing pain is a sign of weakness. Maybe his attempting to help is embarrassing the Prince. Or maybe his attempts are feeble and reminding them just how deep the pain runs, and how helpless they are to stop it.

He's got to know.

Confusion turns to frustration, to determination. Gabriel strings together the foundation of a plan, and then sends a temptation he knows Beelzebub won't be able to resist.

He invites them to Restaurant Gordon Ramsey in West London, because if you're going to tempt the Prince of Gluttony, you'd better go all the way.

–

Beelzebub greets him coolly at the foot of the escalator and begins to walk without waiting for him. He strides to meet their pace. When they get to the restaurant, Gabriel pulls their chair out for them, and they sit without thanking him.

He watches them eat with their usual gusto, though their heart doesn't seem in it. They won't speak to him as they devour their Cumbrian Blue Grey or their sorbet. It's almost a minor miracle that they agree to accompany him to his preferred hotel.

He likes this one, because the beds are massive, and the rooms are wide. The lighting is adjustable, and he likes having the curtains closed and leaving the room bathed in warm low light. It's private and comfortable, and very aesthetically pleasing. 

There's also something distinctly satisfying about seeing the Prince of Hell sprawled onto the bed that dwarfs them. They look so very small and precious like that.

There doesn't seem to be any foreplay to that vision today, sadly. Beelzebub stands awkwardly at the foot of the bed as Gabriel removes his coat and scarf. They almost jump when his hands touch their shoulders.

“Hey, Buzz,” he says softly. “Doing alright?”

“I'm fine,” they say, a touch defensively. “I am just a little irritated at your behavior, of late.”

He doesn't really know what to say to that, so he sits on the bed in front of them, pulling them between his legs. “I know. Let me make it up to you. Come here.”

The Prince goes willingly, and they don't argue as he gently shrugs their clothing off. They don't complain as he carefully touches their bare, smooth skin. They only prompt him to pull his own shirt off, their hands flat on his chest. 

Gabriel does like touching the demon. He's only so gentle lately because he worries he'll hurt them accidentally, but they say nothing as he presses his hands against the curve of their ribs.

“Hey, Buzz,” he begins as casual as he can. “Lemme do your wings.”

“Unnecessary,” they say firmly into his hair, where they've curled their fingers. “They are already neat.”

“C'mon, I know you can't reach your scapulars and coverts, _nobody_ can reach those.”

He can feel their grimace on his forehead, their frame tensed under his hands. Finally, they release a breath, and the tension slides out of them. “Fine.”

Beelzebub turns away from him, and clambers onto the bed until they are centered on it, on their knees, their back facing him. With a shift in the planes of vision, they draw their massive wings out.

Gabriel inhales sharply at the sight.

The feathers might have shone, straight and clean, but they can't cover the balding patches where sores leak, or the distorted shape from where the thin hollow bones have healed incorrectly. Their wings are misshapen and ugly under the feathers, which as arranged to hide as much of the damage as possible. 

“Holy_ fuck,_ Buzz.”

Their body curls in on itself, and they withdraw the wings again swiftly. “There it is,” they mutter inexplicably, before they slide off the side of the bed and are fully clothed in a miracle so fast Gabriel hasn't even blinked.

“Wait, Buzz, hang on--”

“Why should I?”

“You just caught me off guard, that's it, come back to bed.”

Their eyes are narrowed to slits. “I am so sick of your shit, Angel. You wouldn't know subtlety if it fucked you in the arse.”

Gabriel opens his mouth to argue, but all he finds he can say is, stupidly, “That wouldn't be very subtle, then.”

Beelzebub's nostrils flare in a sneer, and he backtracks quickly. He's not going to apologize (he's an angel! He can do no wrong) but he can at least recover the situation—he's a mediator, for God's sake, this is his job.

“Okay, yeah, I reacted a little strongly. I just don't like seeing you in pain, Buzz, I wanna do something to make it less severe if I can.”

He can see that they are relaxing, but they make no move to approach again, still hovering between the bed and the door like a small animal waiting to bolt. When they speak, it's an irritated low grumble. “So bloody full of good will, are you?”

“Uh, _angel.”_

They snort. “Don't act as though you don't have other motives, Gabe. I can _see_ them, hovering around you, even if you won't admit them to yourself.”

Gabriel crosses his arms. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Of course you don't.” With that, the Prince turns their back to him and crosses the room to the door. “You may ssspeak to me when you've gotten your head out your ass. So I ssssuppose I'll see you in two thousand years.”

“Hey!”

A blink is all it takes to cross the room, to curl his hand hard around Beelzebub's bicep and wrench them away from the door to look at him. They make no exclamation of pain, even though he_ knows_ he's gripping too hard, he knows it's got to hurt and if they were human there might even be bruises in the shape of his fingers. He yanks them back against him, his other hand grabbing their forearm which has raised to strike him.

And like this, they fall into the dance they are familiar with. 

“We're not done here,” he snarls as he manhandles them, his bared teeth inches from their own before mouths meet viciously. They struggle in his grasp, before their hands curl hard into his shirt and tear at it with their claws that he_ adores,_ he adores this deeply, this violent passion the two of them fall into with something almost like Grace.

“Hands _off _me, angel,” they are hissing while his mouth presses firmly to their jawline and down their throat, even as Beelzebub pushes their own hand into his hair to keep him there. 

He likes that there is nothing gentle about this. Their natures are always so clear in this aspect, Angel and Demon, enemies, at each other's throats, passionately in some kind of battle, even if its result is something far more pleasant than death. He likes that he can throw the Prince bodily onto the large bed and tear their shirt open and they will retaliate in kind with their hands firm and flat on the planes of his back, threatening to claw him open.

There is nothing gentle about how he slots himself between their hips, or in the way their thighs tighten hard around his waist, hard enough to hurt, keeping him there, in their grasp, unable to escape.

He likes how they writhe and hiss under him while he fucks them, his hands tight on the back of their neck to keep them pressed to his chest. They nip at his skin and struggle but they're so eager to keep him right there.

The wind down is always gentler than the wind up.

–

Gabriel looks at the profile of Beelzebub where they lay, their eyes shut. His finger traces their collarbone as he studies the smooth expanse of skin along their chest. It's unmarred, no trace of scars or blemishes. When he runs his palm down their torso, he feels nothing out of place.

“I can hear you thinking, angel,” comes the soft reply, though the Prince hasn't opened their eyes. Gabriel feels his mouth become a flat line.

“I want you to drop your corporation illusion.”

“I shall not,” they say immediately, turning away from him so all he can see is the expanse of their back. Gabriel scowls.

“Why _not,_” he asks, petulant, hand curling on their hip to keep them from getting further from him. “I don't see what the problem is.”

Beelzebub has gone tense under his fingers, and their response is seething. “You're unbelievable, do you know that? Unbelievable and impossible. You think it's your duty to fix your little fuck buddy, hm? Eazzzze their suffering?”

They sit upright suddenly, Gabriel's hand sliding off their body. “Buzz--” he begins, but they give him no quarter.

“You keep treating me like I'm made of glass,” they hiss, standing, looking down at him with that expression he honestly can't translate. He's seen it a lot lately. “I will not _break _from your touch, idiot. Izzz that not enough for you to know?”

“No, it isn't,” he says sharply, sitting up to return their glare. “I want to see all of you! I want to see how bad the damage is so I don't make it _worse_.”

“You cannot make it worse! I have never told you you were hurting me, that's not enough?”

“No,” Gabriel says. “I know you, I know you're not about to show any weakness in front of me, so how about you just let me be sure?”

They turn away from him to find their clothing, strewn at the foot of the bed. “No.”

“Show me.” It's a demand.

“I shall _not!_”

“This isn't up for debate!”

“I dare zzzzay it izzzn't!”

“Damn it, Buzz, I have a right to know!”

They stand upright, shirt in their hand, and laugh, and laugh, and it isn't a nice sound. Gabriel _likes_ their laugh, usually, because he's the only one who can get them to. He's the only one who can see their surprised snorts, small upturned nose wrinkling as their mouth pulls. This is a laugh that's more cruel than sudden.

“A _right_? How rich! You sanctimoniouzzzz _prick_, you haven't a right to anything. It izzzzz a _privilege_ I grant you to allow you near me without going for your throat. I don't have to show you anything I feel izzzn't your buzzzinezzz.”

They haven't gone this fuzzy around their sibilants in ages—damn, they're angry.

Well, he is too.

“I have a right to know if I'm hurting you! That makes it my business!”

Beelzebub snaps their head in his direction, sneering. They look a little ridiculous standing there, glaring, in nothing but a wrinkled shirt. Gabriel balls his fists. “I'm just trying to _help_, Buzz.”

Their reaction is a wince, followed by a grimace. “I don't want it. I don't want your pity.”

“Why not?!”

“Becauzzze I'm _dizzzguzzting_ and I like it!”

He's taken aback, blinking in surprise. They continue, furious, and their wings fold out of the ether and spread, large and lopsided.

“You think I did not zzzee your dizzguzzzt when you saw my marks, Angel? I saw perfectly clearly. I knew you would hate my true form, would try to heal me, becauzzzze you pity me and are disgusted by me in the same breath.”

“That's--” he begins, and then stops, because he remembers seeing the lesser demon in the hall, face covered in burn scars, and thinking them the ugliest creature he's ever seen. He remembers almost recoiling at the sight of Beelzebub's face in the lights of the Basement.

And that's what they _look_ like, and when he'd first seen it, he hadn't held back his displeasure, and their face had done that thing he's seen a lot of lately. This unreadable thing, where they close off a part of themself, walling off a little piece of their--

Their hurt, he realizes, something in the vicinity of his stomach turning over itself.

He's an idiot. He's an idiot, and he's cruel without meaning to be, and that makes it all the worse.

Beelzebub stares at him, because he's silent and thrown off. And the whole time, in nothing but their shirt, their massive wings filling the expanse of the room—the whole time, their hurt is finally painted on their face, mixed with their own pride.

They expect his rejection. They are bracing themself for it. They're ready to take his disgust, disdain, and leave, and not come back.

Fuck. _Fuck._

Gabriel holds his head in his hands.

He doesn't want them to leave. He doesn't want to be the reason their hurt is on their face. He's an angel, he's supposed to love without repose, without exception, but he's got his own aesthetic vices, and they know they don't fit that. 

Somehow, that makes him feel worse than the idea that he could physically hurt them. They could recover from any injury he gives them, and come back and claw right back at him. This is a whole other basket of kittens. 

“I think,” he says, haltingly, not looking up at them, “we need to talk about this.”

He doesn't expect them to listen, not when he's fucked things up so disastrously, so his heart turns in relief when he hears their quiet steps towards him, and feels the bed dip under their weight. Something soft touches his shoulder.

Gabriel opens his eyes, swallowing hard. Their wing is curled around him, cradling him. Beelzebub is watching his reaction carefully.

In slow movements, he reaches for them, and they go willingly, letting him pull the small demon into his chest, his hands careful at the base of their wings. He presses his nose to their temple.

“I reacted really badly. I'm sorry, Buzz.”

They stiffen in his arms, surprised.

“I am. I'm really sorry,” Gabriel continues, running his hand down the curve of their spine, resting on their lower back. “And I made you feel like you couldn't be your whole self around me, and that's my fault.”

“Shut up,” they mumble into his shoulder. “You don't apologize. Who are you, what have you done to my bastard archangel.”

He presses his own forehead into their shoulder, tightening his grip. “I hate that I did this to you, that you feel like you can't show this part of you to me. You like it, you said. It's you. I want to like it too.”

“You won't,” comes the reply, full of resignation. “You won't like my form. I know you, Gabe.”

“S'wrong of me,” he mumbles. “I wasn't even trying to understand. I want to fix it.”

The demon slowly extracts themself from his grip, to look him in the eye. They sit on their knees, and their fingers cup his face. They study his expression, and their own softens into something that makes him see, just for a moment, the angel they once were.

“Oh, angel,” they say, simply, and let the illusion slick off their skin, like soap slicking off water.

–

They are stiffly still as Gabriel runs the pads of his fingers down their shoulders and arms. Here, the rash is angry fire red, splotchy and encompassing the whole of their elbow. Small sores litter their neck and throat. Some of them, he notes, are open, discolored with infection.

Their back is worse, for the deep scars that run from between their shoulders down to their tailbone. On their right shoulder, an angry large burn scar is stitched together, almost like star patterns.

Their hips are crossed with thin white scars, and inflamed with rash. 

Gabriel is careful, so careful, when he presses his chest against their back and holds them. He dips his head into the curve of their neck.

“You know,” he says, voice thick, “it's not as bad as I thought it was gonna be.”

There's the little surprised snort he loves. (he _loves._) “Foolish little angel.”

“M'bigger than you,” he mumbles without heat. He tilts his head up, and kisses their cheek, mindful of the sores. “You're sure I can't do something? Not to make them go away,” he adds quickly. “Just, to ease the aches, a little.”

“What's your motive?” comes the suspicious reply. He nuzzles them. 

“Making my prince feel pampered, is all.”

They are quiet, before they tilt their head to look at him, blue eyes wrinkled in something that looks like shyness. 

“Would you massage my lower back? The chairs in hell, they're a nightmare.”

Gabriel grins, kisses their cheek again, and pushes them to lay face down on the mattress. He gets to work.

–

This is what his devotion and penance looks like:

When they are alone together, Beelzebub pulls their illusion down and allows Gabriel to hug them hard. His hugs are tight things that lift the Prince off their feet and makes their bones pop, or so they say. It relieves the newest of the tight joints, leaving them feeling loose and warm.

He gets them ergonomic chairs for Downstairs, to help with their back tension. Beelzebub allows him to press his thumbs into their vertebrae and loosen the worst of the knots. He can't get rid of all of them—the tension is too much, and the muscles themselves are scarred into perpetual swelling, but he can ease the worst of it.

They let him rub antibiotic ointment into the open sores, which they say eases the sting and helps them close faster. They finally allow him to straighten their scapular feathers, and his thumbs press into the space between their shoulders and make them groan, pleased.

Gabriel is not an angel of healing, but he _is_ an angel, so he feels at least a little capable in this regard. For his penance, things go back to normal. Beelzebub refuses to let him be gentle in their encounters—they rile him up when need be, and his grip is firm and solid on their skin, on their bumpy wrists, on their angry thighs.

His Prince is a demanding thing, and he loves being able to follow their orders. He loves that he is granted this gift.

–

Sometimes, after a tryst in bed where he's fucked them silly and then rubbed his hands into the muscles of their back, they talk about Heaven.

“Do you miss it?” he asks, stupidly, unthinkingly.

They snarl. “_Never_. I'm glad to be gone.”

“Doesn't it hurt?” And he doesn't just mean the open sores or the scars—he means the Grace too. Her Love is a thing that has its own space in his chest, and he imagines it would feel like an ache if it was hollowed out.

(Similar to how it feels when Beelzebub won't speak to him. How it feels when their face slips into concealed hurt because of him.)

“Of course it bloody doezz,” they hiss. “I'm _glad_ for it. It—it is like a scar wound. It'zz a reminder that I _fought_ for something I believed in. I did not just zz--” they bite their tongue, pausing, and then continue. “I didn't just sit around and do something I didn't agree with. I wasn't just one of the masses. I was _me_.”

Gabriel is pressing his face into their sternum, eyes shut. Beelzebub continues, their fingers in his short greying hair. “They make me myself, as much as your eyes make you yourself and Hers.”

He is quietly breathing against their chest, before he finally looks up to meet their gaze.

“Okay. I get it. I need you to do something for me.”

They tilt their head.

“Scratch me. Don't hold back.”

“_What?_”

“Listen,” Gabriel starts quickly, before they can deny him offhand, “what you just said, about how they make you you and my eyes make me Hers—but I'm not _just _Hers, Buzz. If they're reminders of who you are and where you belong, then--”

“You blessed _fool,_” Beelzebub says hoarsely. “You would wear a demon's mark so willingly?”

“It's _yours_, Buzz.” Gabriel re-situates them both, pulling the demon's small frame flush to him again. “I want to feel it and feel proud. I wanna understand.”

His hands are wide, wide enough to cup their arse and hold them up against him, making them gasp quietly as he begins to rock again. He's strong and broad to their lithe and petite, shoulders wide as their thin arms hook under his arms and claw at his skin. _“Fuck,”_ he hears against his throat. Their thighs tighten around his waist again.

He fucks them until they scratch hard enough at his back that he can feel the skin split. He can feel the marks, lines of gold that won't close, because he won't let them. When Beelzebub comes against him, they bite down on the curve of his neck, hard, breaking skin. Gabriel gasps, swears, and comes.

They gasp together, shudder, come down slow, and then he finally lets go and pulls back. Beelzebub lays back and brings their fingers to their face to inspect the golden ichor on their nails.

Eyes meeting Gabriel's, they bring their fingers to their mouth.

–

(If in the future, it becomes routine to let his Prince tie him down and mark him all over, and to wear the scratches and bites under his clothing, it's between him, Beelzebub, and God Herself, and She says nothing about it.)


End file.
